


no one walks (tonight)

by somethingdifferent



Category: Watchmen (2009), Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, F/M, Gen, i'm really mixing my universes here i hope you all can appreciate, surrealist 90s teenage road trip AU 4ever, yeah i have a serious problem it is called this asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 10:36:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2064870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The waitress calls him honey and gives him his meal with a steady hand that says she's been here longer than he's been alive, asking ain't he supposed to be in school? Yes, m'am, he most certainly is.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He calls Dan's house from the pay phone outside with the last of his quarters, but he hangs up before the answering machine can get to the part where you can hear Laurie laughing in the background.</em>
</p>
<p>[rorschach; the surrealist 90s teen road trip au that no one asked for and no one needed (except for me)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one walks (tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: I haven't read the comics (please don't hate me). I just really liked the premise of the Watchmen - and of course all its imagery and references (quis custodiet ipsos custodes, anyone?) so I needed to write something for it.
> 
> This is probably a little out of character, since I made everyone younger, so they're a little less brutal and hardcore than in the comics/movie. Also this apparently exists in an alternate universe where Rorschach's mother is alive by the time he's 18, and everyone is in high school together. Basically I combined every alternate universe into one thing and called it a fic. This also ended up with a lot more Rorschach/Laurie than I expected, but what are you going to do?
> 
> Warning: contains spoilers for Of Mice and Men (if you can spoil something that came out in 1937???).
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

 

 

_  
Maybe ever'body in the whole damn world is scared of each other. _

John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

 

 

 

_ Everything will be alright tonight._

Iggy Pop, Tonight

 

 

 

 

 

The neon sign at the station just off the road is missing more than a few lights. The cars in the parking lot are abandoned, some seemingly for years, all except for the rusting junkyard of a motorcycle double parked behind a green Camaro. The girl leaning against the handles stares at the window of the station like there might be diamonds inside. After a moment, she turns away from the faded building and glares at the only car at the filling station. She flicks the ashes off her nearly forgotten cigarette, places it between her lips, and kicks at the bike's engine until it roars to life.

The man leaning against the car, the only other person on the road for miles, watches until she disappears into nothing more than a speck of black on the winding road - and then long after he can't see her at all anymore.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The car is stolen, which yeah, alright, he shouldn't have done. Danny's always talking some shit about ethics and a moral code and _real justice_ , and Laurie might look up at him with her big gleaming eyes (like a bug, he's always thought, but don't say that out loud), but this is the real world, and in it people get what they deserve, so the guy his mom is currently fucking won't miss his car for a few days. He really won't.

The Indian boy ( _Jeeeesus, Walter,_ \- Laurie always drags out the first syllable, like she's in some fucking movie, like she's some fucking actress and he and Dan are there to cater to her every fleeting thought of what is and isn't considered morally upstanding - _Jesus, Walter, they prefer the term Native American_ ) with hair down to his shoulders and a bandaid over his left ring finger raises an eyebrow at the ancient car he pulled up in but says nothing, only jerks his head back down and keeps reading his book. _Metamorphoses_. There's an image on the front cover - a woman made of sticks and leaves - but the boy rests it against the counter until the only visible parts are the pages.

He strolls idly through the aisles, occasionally pulling things off the shelves and dropping them into the plastic basket he picked up - toothpaste, a bag of chips, those little shampoo bottles you see sometimes when people stay at hotels on TV, and - there, on the floor, a discarded casette tape. He lifts it from the ground, turning it over to find the title, only to see that there is none. After a moment of thought, he slides it into his pocket, where it clicks against a few stray coins and the keys to the car.

At the counter, the Indian rings up his items, almost leisurely, occasionally glancing over to the window where a car has just pulled up. There's no one else on the road. Hasn't been for a while.

"Your - " the Indian starts, stops. "What's wrong with your neck?"

"My - " Here he makes a mistake, self-consciously rubs at the spot the cashier pointed to - before remembering himself and dropping his hand. His fingers twitch, scratching against his blue jeans. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You got a birthmark or a tattoo or something? On the back? There's, like, a big black mark there, man."

Sure enough, he can feel something pricking at his skin, the hair there standing up on end.

( _Jeeeeesus, Walter,_ \- Laurie's turned her big bug eyes on him - and for a horrible moment she looks like something worth screaming about, her hair all shiny and parted down the middle and her mouth all red - Laurie's wearing plaid, just like she saw someone doing on MTV - _Jesus, Walter, haven't you even, like, heard of Kurt Cobain? Do you live under a rock?_  - and who does she think she is, this girl, a fucking sophomore, waltzing in and acting superior - and that was when they were in Dan's basement and she had decided to learn how to play the guitar and strummed along with the song on the radio - but now her arm is around Danny's shoulder - _Jesus, Walter, what's wrong with your_ face _?_ )

"Fuck off," he says, grabbing the white plastic bag - like you might grab a chicken around its neck to throttle it - and walks out of the store as quickly as his pride will allow.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He doesn't have money for a motel, not unless he wants to starve before he reaches New Hampshire, so he pulls over to the shoulder of the road, cracks open the front windows, and kills the engine.

He's somewhere close to the border of the state. If he wanted to, he could probably take a detour and go see Niagra Falls, but as it is he'll keep driving.

Ahead, there's the forest curving over the road like shadows of monsters. Behind, the headlights rushing past in a blur, streaking white in a dizzying array. He sleeps restlessly, and behind his eyelids there's the image of wolves' teeth and the girl made of trees and ink blots staining the snow on the city sidewalk ( - and Dan, his eyes black and huge and glittering - opening his mouth wide enough so he can see there are no teeth inside - and his mouth is a hard, gleaming beak of an owl, and he's flickers away - ).

He's awake before sunrise.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He eats breakfast at a mom-and-pop restaurant off the interstate - a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes like his mother never made and black coffee like the businessmen that stay over sometimes with obvious tan lines on their ring fingers - and really, who do they think they're kidding? - have when his mother boils a pot in the morning. The waitress calls him honey and gives him his meal with a steady hand that says she's been here longer than he's been alive, asking ain't he supposed to be in school? Yes, m'am, he most certainly is.

He calls Dan's house from the pay phone outside with the last of his quarters, but he hangs up before the answering machine can get to the part where you can hear Laurie laughing in the background.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The car is beaten down, rusting, full of empty wrappers from various fast food chains and the burnt ends of cigarettes in the ashtray, but it does have a cassette player. He wipes some of the grime off of the clear plastic cover, picking it away with his nails, and slides it into the slot just above the gear shift until it clicks into place.

For half a minute, he's so concerned with the apparently stalled engine - sighing with relief when it finally coughs into life once again - he hardly takes note of the familiar melody filling the enclosed space of the car.

_load up on guns bring your friends it's fun to lose and to pretend -_

And like it's happening all over again, there's Laurie playing the chords for him and Dan - for Dan's benefit more than his - and her doting boyfriend is clapping over her rudimentary ability.

_That was great_ , he's saying. _Wasn't that great, Walter?_ And Walter is nodding and trying to smile - but, hey, fuck it - he's never been great at pretending, so he does nothing more than scowl and nod in reluctant appreciation - but Laurie still takes any reaction from him as a compliment, so she beams and plays an A chord and is saying _Isn't it just the best?_

_Yeah, Laurie_ , Walter is saying, _you're getting pretty good at it._

_i found it hard it's hard to find oh well whatever nevermind_ -

He peels onto the road so fast the tires shriek.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

_You're going on a road trip a month before graduation?_ Dan squints against the sun, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the smokers leaning against the brick wall of the building as they narrow their eyes at his impeccable wardrobe, his clean fingernails. Walter always had an easier time fitting into the picture here. _Isn't that kind of pointless? How are you even going to get there? What are you even going to do?_

He shrugs. _I'll figure it out._

Dan whistles. One of the girls behind him - her hair is all knotted, she's wearing a man's shirt - her boyfriend's probably - Walter has seen her around, is even friendly with her, but only now is he realizing how radically different Dan is from this group, how radically different Dan is from _him_ even -

_Hey, Laurie wanted to know if you could help her with_ Of Mice and Men _? She's really behind, and you had Weisman for lit, so -_

( _\- Jesus, Laurie what are you doing with - with fucking Jon of all people - Don't tell Dan, please! It was just a kiss - he wanted to get back together, but I didn't let him, and he - Fuck, Laurie, you're so fucking stupid sometimes - Just don't tell him, alright! And don't try to do_ _anything to Jon - What makes you think I - I know you, Walter, so just fucking -_ )

_Yeah, fine._  He jerks his head vaguely in the direction of home. _I'll see you._

When he glances back, from the safe distance of a block away, he can still see Dan standing there - looking a little like a broken wind-up toy.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

By the time he reaches Haverhill, the tape has finished, the last song ending in a short burst of static. He drives in silence until he spots an exit, deciding he might as well eat before the sun starts setting.

( _Mr. Kovacs?_ \- the teacher is looking at him with so much sympathy in her eyes - _How are things at home?_ - _Fine, they're fine_ - _Alright, just_ - _Have you been eating? You're thin as a rail -_  and that's not quite true, he's small, slight even, but he's wiry and tough as rawhide and he can hold his own in a fight - ask anyone, ask the _police_ \- _I'm fine, Ms. Heller, I've got a class_ \- )

The joint is nearly deserted when he walks in - four in the afternoon, he thinks, isn't a particularly popular time to eat lunch - and he eats alone, in silence, with only the sound of a bored employee sweeping behind the counter disturbing the monotony. The scene is more achingly familiar than anyone would care to admit.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The policeman is dragging him over the threshold of their apartment building by the scruff of his neck.

_Ma'am_ \- always so fucking polite, they are, as if Walter and his mother are people worthy of such pleasantries - _we take these kinds of offenses very seriously. This time, considering his age and the nature of the attack, we're letting him off with a warning, but I would advise you to get ahold of your boy. Discipline him. This kind of behavior will only become more aggressive as he gets older._

_Oh, of course,_ his mother is replying, ushering him into the elevator as quickly as she can, and - lo and behold - as soon as the cop is gone she's lighting a cigarette and rubbing her temple and _What am I gonna fucking do with you?_

Thirteen-year-old Walter doesn't say a word in reply.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Dan finds a photo album of Laurie in all her child beauty queen glory. She groans, covering her head with her hands as he unveils it at lunch.

_Jesus, how did you - don't show that to anyone, Danny!_ She snatches it out of his grasp, flipping the book shut and tucking it into her backpack. _My mom is a nightmare, I swear to god._ And here's the thing - everything with Laurie is in the superlative. Everything is the best, or the worst, a matter of life and death. Walter has always found this grating, which is why he finds himself laughing, laughing cold and mean and eyes glinting nothing but anger behind them - _Your mom's a fucking nightmare, that's a funny joke._

Dan isn't smiling, but Laurie's slow on the uptake, and this is the most interesting thing the boy opposite her has ever said. _Really? What's she done?_

He raises an eyebrow at Dan - oh, so you _don't_ tell your girlfriend everything? - and smiles a wolf's smile. _She's a whore._

Laurie abruptly stops grinning - Dan shifts uncomfortably in his seat until he changes the subject, something a little lighter, but the change hasn't been forgotten - and there is Laurie sneaking glances at him from across the table, even with Danny's arm around her shoulder, Walter suddenly a new and fascinating person in her eyes. He keeps his head down, doesn't meet her stare, finishes his measly lunch without saying another word, only nodding when he needs to and laughing at one of Dan's terrible jokes.

They don't talk about it again.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He's in Rockland, Maine by nightfall. He doesn't take the time to look around the city - only finds the nearest abandoned parking lot for him to crash and avoid any local cops looking to ease their boredom.

He sleeps in fits and spurts, waking once to the sound of a car alarm going off a few streets over. The cold from outside - spring has apparently skipped over this state - seeps in through the cracked windows, freezing him from the outside in, until finally, he gives up, digs through the glove compartment to see if he can find gloves or a scarf to sleep in.

The glove compartment is much the same as the rest of the car - fast food wrappers, a half-empty pack of Camels, and - this is surprising - a handgun. He only stops rooting around when his hand lights on - (he's walking home, kicking his legs up, taking as long as he needs to and - who exactly does Dan think he _is_? - asking him to help his fucking girlfriend with her English homework - like he's some kind of scholar himself - and besides, Laurie wouldn't fail, the teacher loves her, and even if she did - girls like Laurie land on their feet, their rumpled appearance all carefully crafted from department stores and their dark eyes applied with steady hands that never had to work a day in their lives - never had to actually be tired or worn out or _dirty_ \- when he happens to glance down at the sidewalk and realizes his shoe has caught on something, like white silk with an ink black pattern over it) - his _mask_. That he had so carelessly shoved into the compartment before he left, and here it is, in his hands again. He still can't believe it's real - he's never seen anything like this material - changing as soon as his hands touch it. Now, and again, the ink moving like liquid, making new shapes like those tests you see on TV when stay-at-home mothers and serial killers go to psychiatrists on daytime shows.

He holds it in his hands for a moment, lets it slide against the rough callouses on his fingers, before placing it gently onto the passenger seat and resuming his search.

A few more minutes of navigating the dump site of the car - pulling out in the process a cracked Walkman with headphones attached - and he's finally rewarded with a pair of winter gloves and a red scarf. He wraps his neck in the scarf, the livid red bright even in the near darkness, and pulls the gloves over his hands. He falls asleep to the sound of the car alarm still going off, singing like a lullaby, and the rain beating against the roof.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He sleeps until he can no longer ignore the light coming in through the windows, pale and bringing with it the slightest glimmer of heat. His hair has flattened on one side, stuck to his face from leaning against the headrest. He rubs at his eyes, yawning a bit. The glowing numbers on the dashboard display the time, too early for any stores to be open or for anyone to be going to work. He steps out of the car, leans against the side, and waits. Looks at the glimpses of the water a few blocks away. Watches the sun climb higher in the sky.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

In Rockland, Maine, on the sixth of April, there's a man - though most passers-by would later agree that he seemed more like a boy than anything else - who walks around with no particular purpose. He carries a sign reading THE END IS NIGH. He looks, one of the shopgirls decides, as she observes him from the window of the department store where she works, like a man who lives near here. Same pale red hair, same freckles, same jaw, same slight build. They could almost be family (in fact, when the local man passes by, the homeless lunatic seems more than a little interested, staring at the other man's face like he's searching for a hidden message in the lines passing over his skin - he seems to find nothing, however, and continues his aimless wandering).

The boy's eyes, she thinks, are a whole lot colder.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He sits on the curb, his sign leaning precariously against a lamppost. The sign, he had figured, would ensure his invisibility among the recent influx of tourists. No one wants to look to closely at someone they think is homeless, and no one has ever looked too closely at him besides.

Every so often, a sprinkle of change is thrown into the styrofoam cup at his side. By noon, he has enough to pay for lunch. Good thing, he considers, since he has enough left for a five dollar dinner and just enough for gas to get back to New York.

He pulls the cracked Walkman out of his coat pocket, pushes the headphones over his ears, and plays the unmarked tape again.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

This time, he recognizes the song immediately when it begins to play. This time, however -

_you are the sun and moon and stars are you -_

it isn't the same music as before.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

It's embarrassing, really, how a fucking sophomore is the one telling Dan all about everything new and interesting and important and making him watch MTV and talking about _real political issues, Jesus, Danny, haven't you heard?_ Walter never cared about those kinds of things, but as soon as Laurie shows up it's all he hears about, so he knows anyway. And apparently, it's real fucking embarrassing not to.

Radiohead is a newer obsession, even if their album was out a year ago (Laurie glares at him when he points this out, flips her hair and replies heatedly,  _I was just a freshman, alright? What's your excuse?_ ).

_Thom Yorke_ , she tells them with all the surety of someone who has studied the matter intensely, _is a genius._

Dan nods, all knowingly, idiot that he is.

Walter raises an eyebrow. He waves his hand, already preparing himself for the demonstration that is to follow.

Laurie smiles, beaming at his apparent excitement, and races over to Dan's only cassette player, tossing his mix tape (for her, of course) to the side, and pulling out her own from her purse. Walter has never seen her with fewer than three cassettes on hand (all of her CDs she keeps at home, for fear of someone scratching them - he's never heard anything so fucking stupid).

Instead of rushing upstairs to find her guitar, though, she stays still, staring at the player as the music poured into the room.

_when you were here before couldn't look you in the eye_ -

Laurie is glancing back and forth between them, watching their reactions. Dan, he can tell, doesn't get the appeal, but is pretending for Laurie's sake.

Walter thinks it's the best thing Laurie's ever played for either of them.

_i don't care if it hurts i want to have control_

_i want a perfect body i want a perfect soul_

_i want you to notice when i'm not around_ -

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

( - somewhere on the passenger seat of a stolen car is a mask that changes its pattern - somewhere in New York his mother is fucking a guy who's probably missing his car right now - somewhere in New York Dan is fucking Laurie - )

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The tape runs out, eventually. He wonders if he had imagined the Nirvana earlier, dreamed it up because he was thinking of it, but no - not even then.

The television behind the bar is set to MTV, and every few minutes an ad for Coca-Cola will play, or for McDonald's or something, so he watches with some mild disinterest and eats his food as slowly as possible, savoring the warmth from the central heating in the diner.

"I think you're bleeding." The woman behind the bar looks to be in her fifties, her hair wild and untamed, her hands trembling as they clean the counter. She runs her hands down the side of her neck to signify where.

He presses his finger against the spot, and sure enough he is. "It's nothing," he says, folding his napkin and dabbing at the cut.

She shrugs. "Suit yourself." She goes back to cleaning the bar, the same place as before, and even when it's spotless she doesn't seem to notice. "What's your name, son?"

He doesn't know how to answer this. "Rorschach," he says, on a whim. Like those psychology tests you see on daytime TV. Like the mask in the car.

"You got a first name to go with that?"

He shakes his head. "No."

She shrugs again, and turns away to leave him to his own devices until: "Shame, isn't it?" She's gesturing to the TV, a music video playing on the screen.

"About what?"

"That Kirk Cobain guy."

"Kurt Cobain. What about him?"

The woman furrows her brow. "He died yesterday. Shot himself, looks like. You didn't know?"

He shakes his head, staring at the TV where In Bloom is playing without any sound.

"I think you've got something on your cheek." The woman reaches for it, but he flinches away, rubbing at his temple.

"It's fine."

She holds up her hands in defeat. "It's gone now anyway." She leaves, finally, to clean the rest of the counter.

He sits in silence, watching the television as the images flash over his head. Behind the counter, someone taped up a picture of a little girl, all dark hair and big eyes, _MISSING_ in big letters over her head. He pays for lunch with change from the styrofoam cup and stays at the bar until someone tells him to leave.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

_It isn't fair though._ Laurie is flipped over on her back, her hair hanging off the edge of her bed. He's sitting on the hardwood floor, leaning against the mattress, and  _Of Mice and Men_ is crumpled on the ground next to him. _Lennie didn't have to die._

_No one_ has _to die._ Walter is profoundly uncomfortable. How he let Dan talk him into this, talk him into helping her with her goddamn English homework of all things, is beyond him. _George only did it because there was nothing else to do. Lennie would've been lynched. Call it a mercy kill._

_Is there any such thing?_

_According to the book, yeah. Why, you don't think so?_

_No, I don't._ She's abruptly serious now. _They could've run away, kept going until they didn't know anyone, and gotten their farm and George could've helped Lennie and they could've been happy._

_Happy?_ he says. _Jesus, Laurie, no one's fucking happy._ He picks up the book, smooths out the crinkled pages. _Maybe he was just tired. Of running, I mean. Tired of taking care of someone you can't really take care of. Maybe Lennie knew what was going to happen, you ever think of that? Maybe that's really why he was waiting for George._

_He didn't have to die. If I was there, I wouldn't have killed him._

_You don't know that. Maybe Lennie was tired too. Maybe he was happy to die then, when he's happy and he doesn't know and he's thinking about the rabbits. Dying isn't so bad. Nothing would hurt anymore, you wouldn't be sad or afraid. You'd just be asleep._

Laurie is looking at him funny. She turns over so she's lying on her stomach, her chin in her hands, her legs swinging in the air behind her. _Would you do it?  
_

_Do what?_

_Kill him. Let's say Dan is Lennie and you're George. Would you kill him?_

He lowers his eyes. Laurie is wearing a class ring. She doesn't get that for another year, he's thinking, and then he realizes - yeah, of course Dan gave her his class ring. Of course. _I'm not sure that's the best comparison._

_Okay, then I'm Lennie._

_No, I mean I don't think I'd be George._

_What?_ She's staring at him, he can feel her eyes searching his face, but he refuses to meet her gaze. _Is that what you think of yourself? Like you're some kind of wild dog?_

_I don't - look, you've got to figure out what you're gonna write for your essay, because he'll be out for blood if he thinks you used Cliffs Notes. You should've just read the book._

_I did, you just read more of it. And don't avoid the question, I'm not done with -_ _  
_

(This is the part where he kisses her - holds her face in his hand and catches the tendrils of her hair coming loose from her braid - from here, sitting down, she still craned off the edge of her bed, they're the same height, though normally she's an inch taller - and for a moment, a moment that's too short, she's kissing him back, her hand flits against his temple - )

She pushes him away. Her ring is caught on the collar of his jacket. _You._

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

There's a pay phone outside of the diner, in the parking lot where the car still sits, idle. He uses the quarters leftover from lunch and hunches into the booth, dials Laurie's number and waits. For five rings, no one picks up. On the sixth, he can hear static, the receiver being jostled out of place, and finally a voice.

"Hello?" Laurie asks absentmindedly. Expecting to hand the phone off to someone else. He can't remember the last time his mother was expecting a call from anyone. For a second, he considers hanging up.

"Don't hang up," he says.

"Walter? Where the fuck are you? Never mind, I don't want to know, you fucking asshole."

"I heard about Kurt Cobain." He leans against the walls of the booth. The glass is cool against his skin. He hadn't realized how feverish he feels, crowded and cramped and stuck. "I just wanted to - I don't know, actually."

"Yeah, Walter." There's music playing, but he can't tell what. "I know."

"You're okay?"

"I'm fine." The phone rustles, and he can hear some of the words more clearly ( _\- what the hell am i doing here i don't belong here -_ ), before her sighing in his ear. "Are _you_ okay?"

He glances out at the car. From here, he can pretend it's his. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm alright."

"Just - come back in one piece."

A seagull lands on the roof. "I'll try."

The dial tone sounds.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He plays the tape again, and this time he's not surprised when Lust For Life blares through the headset. He walks through the streets with his sign, listening to the cassette, ignoring looks of confusion, anger, hate. This is Dan's favorite album from the last few decades, he said so. Dan had played the record for him when they were freshman.

_i will love her till i die i will see her in the sky tonight -_

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He goes down to the water. At this time of day, there's hardly anyone around, just the rocks and the sand and the waves stretching forward and to the side as far as he can see.

He stands on the beach, the damp earth compressing underneath him. The sun on the water glitters too bright and makes his eyes burn. He crouches down, ignoring the rain-wet sand sticking to his shoes. Watches the waves, shimmering. Puts his head in his hands.

After a while, he stands up, turns around, and heads back to the car.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He drives home without stopping for anything other than gas and manages to make it back before midnight. The parking spot where the guy had been before is empty, so he pulls in, gathers any evidence of his trip (the mask - folded over his hands and sliding all soft against his skin - ) and buzzes into the building.

He opens the door to the apartment as quietly as possible, holding the knob until the door closes with a quiet thud.

"Where the fuck have you been?" His mother watches him from the kitchen. He holds his breath, waiting. "School ends at 4:00, you fuckwit."

He exhales. "I went over to Dan's."

His mother nods like she doesn't believe him, but doesn't actually care about the truth either. "You've got something on your neck. You get a tattoo?"

"It's nothing."

"Sylvia?" A man stumbles from her room, same guy as before. Has he been here since last night? "You fucking done in here?"

"Yeah, yeah." She waves her hand, gathering her coffee and trudging back into her room, closing the door behind her with a clatter.

It's like, he thinks briefly, he never even left.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He wonders he could see through the mask, breathe through it. In the dark of his room, he pulls the thin material over his head, until it covers his red hair, his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, down to his neck -

He opens his eyes, finding he can see perfectly, even watch the pattern change shape in the threads. He breathes easily. Better than before. Greedily, sucking the air into his throat and down to his lungs, back up, in and out, his breath coming faster - his head in his hands - he can feel something prickling at the edges of his skin where the mask ends, and he's still - his room is dark, and it's silent save for the sound of police sirens echoing a few blocks away. Eventually, his pulse slows, his breathing calms. He keeps inhaling, exhaling, in and out, in and out.

In. Out.

 

 

 

 


End file.
